


Optimism

by trainwhistlesatnight



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Depression, Skul has ptsd and depression okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwhistlesatnight/pseuds/trainwhistlesatnight
Summary: Some sort of drabble looking into the depression and ptsd Skul pretty undoubtedly has and how he's dealt with it.





	Optimism

**Author's Note:**

> I want Skulduggary to be happy but also it is Really Hard when you've been alive for 400+ years and also been through war, died, saw your family die, etc etc etc  
> Also I was sad and wanted to vent but now I'm not sad so it's all good.

Skulduggary had tried to die more times than he could count. He ruled out ways he knew would wouldn't work, and then tried at some point anyway. Just to be sure.  
But the thing was, Skulduggary was already dead. And that was well and good, but he was still walking and talking and feeling and though he told Valkyrie time and time again "feeling is how you know you're alive", he did not want to be alive. He wanted to be dead, buried in the ground, around 400 years ago when he first died.

He had tried and tried and it hadn't worked.

Despite his cheerful persona, his positive nihilism and arguable optimism in literally the worst possible situations, Skulduggary was not a happy man. Not really, anyway.

He was tired, that bone crushing tired where there is absolutely nothing that could get you out of bed simply because it isn't worth it anymore. Until it is, because he still has Valkyrie to teach, stories to tell to Ghastly, China to bother in some form. He still has things to do.

So he comes out of his meditation, which was as close to sleeping or death he was getting at this point, and gets up, gets dressed, and drives the Bentley to wherever he needs to be. And he puts on a show and does this or that, and does dectecting, and teaching, and bothering and story telling and saves the day and everything is fine. It's always fine.

Except that everything is, in fact, not always fine.

And there are some nights that are too long, and he gets scared of his wants at his overwhelming want to die because he needs to live because he has so much to do and it all have to get done and-

He calls a suicide hotline. Has. More than once. But no one recognizes his voice. And he never gives the correct name. And they will never know who he is, or check on him, or worry about him after this call.

And quite honestly, humans are an amazing form of selfish, and he'd be surprised to find out the ones he would talk to in the moment cared about him even then, during the call.

But he didn't dwell on those, because they didn't matter in the long run. And that, he guessed, was okay, because for the humans the long run was incredibly in the blink of an eye short.

But they helped, sometimes, and so he lived. And when they didn't work he lived to spite every single person who wanted him dead. And when that didn't work-

He walked. Found himself at Ghastly's house, on the edge of tears he couldn't cry and asking for help or at least a hug even though he wasn't a very touchy-feely person. Or he went to China's library and they did not talk, only acknowledged each other as he buried his no longer existing nose in books for as long as he could stand it, and even longer. Or he went to Kenspeckles', when things had been extremely hard and he hadn't handled it well. And Kenspeckle would patch him up, but not tease or taught him like usual for such injuries. They made an agreement to not tell Valkyrie.

Of course, Valkyrie was not dumb, despite Skulduggary's jokes. She was actually incredibly bright, and could tell something was not always right with the skeleton detective, but she could feel that he would not talk about it with her, and so against her nature, she did not ask. And he did not tell.

And besides, Stephanie was bright, so very bright. But she was young. And couldn't fully understand that Skulduggary was well over 400 years old and had not wanted to be around for most of them.

Sometimes, anyway.

Sometimes, because sometimes there were things living for. Because there were still bad guys to stop, which gave him purpose. And even more so, there were still stories to tell, lessons to teach, and people to bother. And he imagined he was quite good at those things, and made himself laugh with the thought that it'd be such a shame for them not to hear his wonderful voice anymore. Or to at least hear him do those things the way he did, in the best way possible. 

Yes, yes, there were still things to do, and nights were still incredibly hard sometimes and he hated to admit it. But he hated being alone during those times more. So he decided he would try to find help. 

He found self help books, and though they did not erase 400 some years worse of PTSD, they helped, in their own small ways. Skulduggary found better words to describe how he felt aside from "angry and sad and frustrated but all with myself". More specific words that explained why he acted the way he did.

Yes, Skulduggary was often not a happy man. Technically not even a living man. But he was still walking and talking and he had so many things to do.  
So he would find ways to be happy and feel better, for his friends sake, and his own. And he'd have a clearer head, and maybe some new hobbies to keep his mind occupied, and a, at least slightly, happier life. And things would be better. Maybe not good, but better.

Skulduggary was not a happy man, but at least he was optimistic. And sometimes? Sometimes that was just enough to make the days worth living for.


End file.
